


Shall I solve your riddles?

by HelveticaBrown



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6810190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelveticaBrown/pseuds/HelveticaBrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Joan can't help but be fascinated by Moriarty, even though she knows it's a terrible idea and Moriarty is, of course, fascinated right back. Feelings (and probably some minor havoc) ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall I solve your riddles?

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer for the half a dozen or so people who might happen to read this... I've only watched the first 2 seasons of Elementary, and I really wasn't watching with the intention of writing fic, but you know, best laid plans and all. Therefore, my characterisation may be a little off, and I'm not at all up to speed on happenings beyond the end of S2.
> 
> Also, everything I know about opera and 12th century Persian poetry I learned from Wikipedia in the space of an hour or so. Any mistakes are entirely Wikipedia's fault.

Joan sighed as she opened the door to find yet another package resting on the doorstep. She wondered what this one would be. Among them had been a Rembrandt, a lost Van Gogh, a sheaf of anatomical drawings by da Vinci and, most recently, the bust of Nefertiti. She really didn’t want to know how that last one in particular had come to be in Moriarty’s possession.

It was like having one of the neighbourhood alley cats take a shine to you and leave a series of disembowelled creatures on the doorstep in a twisted kind of affection. Joan rolled her eyes at her own thoughts; she’d extended that metaphor well past its utility. Interesting gifts aside, Moriarty, with her china doll face, sleek hair, and even sleeker intellect could not in any other way be likened to the grizzled strays lurking in the shadowy parts of the neighbourhood. And yet, her series of gifts was no less messy to deal with than partially dismembered mice or birds would be.

The first couple of artworks she’d handed in to the authorities. There’d been a few askance looks, but everyone was used to weird things happening when Sherlock was around. After that, the questions had become more pointed and she’d been delaying dealing with the more recently acquired pieces of probably-priceless artwork. A conservative estimate after an evening of research suggested she currently had several hundred million dollars in artworks haphazardly piled up in a corner of her bedroom.

Sherlock looked up as she walked in with the latest package under her arm. “What is it this time?”

Joan sighed. “I don’t know. I’m not even game to open it because I don’t know what I’d do with it if I did.”

“Have you asked her to stop?”

“It’s not like she’s left a return address or anything.” Generally, the packages contained a brief note, something along the lines of _thought you might like this_ or _saw this and thought of you_. She’d studied them at length and studied the gifts too, all with no success. If Moriarty had hidden anything in there, it was nothing Joan had been able to find and short of damaging priceless artworks, she could think of no further direction she could take her investigations in.

“This is your mystery to solve, Watson, so I suggest you try harder.” He looked back down at his work, attempting to feign a casualness that Joan could tell he didn’t feel. “Moriarty rarely communicates in obvious ways.”

Joan sighed. She knew that. She knew that all too well.

What she didn’t know was quite how to feel about Moriarty’s continued fascination with her. She was accustomed to the familiar warmth of approbation rising in her chest, a reflexive response to praise programmed into her long ago. It was an A+ on a maths test, or her teachers and mentors praising her diagnostician’s brain and sure, steady scalpel hand, or Sherlock recognising her growing independence as an investigator. It was a smile she couldn’t quite suppress, a brief moment of indulgent pleasure she should have outgrown long ago.

It wasn’t anything like _this_. This feeling, this warmth, was of an entirely different character and Joan wasn’t sure she cared to examine it too closely.

The only person she might possibly be able to discuss it with was the last person in the world she should talk to about Moriarty. She retreated to her room; she could see the tension building in Sherlock in his suddenly ramrod-straight spine and the tightness around his eyes. It was the same every time Moriarty came up as a topic, even if in only the most oblique way.

She sat on her bed for a while, the package on her lap, vacillating over whether or not to open it. Eventually, curiosity got the better of her, as it always did.

She frowned. She had no idea what she was looking at this time.

*****

Joan tried to keep herself from fidgeting impatiently as the professor took his time examining the page in front of him. She’d encountered him on a case a year earlier and having been unsuccessful in determining anything further than the probably Middle Eastern origins of Moriarty’s latest gift, she’d decided to seek out an expert.

Eventually he spoke. “It’s a page from the Haft Paykar.”

“The Haft Paykar?”

Without looking up, he said, “It’s a 12th century Persian epic poem written by Nizami.”

That meant exactly nothing to Joan and she couldn’t imagine why Moriarty had sent it.

He continued to peer at it intently. “I can’t say for certain without examining it more closely, but it may even be an original, or at least from a very early copy of the manuscript. Quite remarkable.” He finally looked up at her. “Where did you say you came by it?”

Joan smiled neutrally. “I didn’t.”

His eyes had taken on a familiar gleam of avarice and she knew what was coming next. “I would love to study this further. If I had some more time, I could authenticate it for you. Perhaps you could leave it with me for a while?”

She shook her head, knowing all too well that if it was out of her sight for a moment, she’d never see it again. “I’m sorry. It was hard enough to borrow it for this long,” she lied smoothly.

He tried to persuade her but she held firm and eventually she walked out, page in hand, along with a translation.

Joan puzzled over what she’d learned. When placed alongside the other items Moriarty had sent, this one stood out as unusual. When she got back to the brownstone, she went straight up to her room and spent the next few hours trying to find out all she could about the Haft Paykar. She was tempted to ask Sherlock’s opinion, but thought better of it.

It was only a few days later, walking past a billboard, that the final piece of the puzzle slipped into place.

*****

Joan settled into her seat and waited. Occasionally, she glanced at the empty seat next to her; she’d bought an extra ticket just in case. She couldn’t help the disappointment that welled up when the seat beside her remained obstinately empty, even after the last warning bell sounded before the doors closed. It seemed she’d misread Moriarty’s clue, or perhaps projected something that was never actually there in the first place.

She fumbled in her bag, realising she hadn’t switched off her phone. When she looked back up again an usher was gesturing in her direction. She looked over at him questioningly and he nodded, indicating she should return to the aisle to speak with him.

Joan frowned as the usher pulled her aside. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re in the wrong seat.”

“No, I’m not.” She pulled her ticket out of her bag and double-checked, just to make sure.

She continued to argue, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. There appears to have been a mix-up when your tickets were printed. These seats were allocated to another couple. Please, let me take you to your new seats.”

Her instincts were crying out that something about this situation was not quite right. She felt her heart rate pick up and she automatically scanned her surroundings for a possible source of a threat. The usher was one she’d noticed on a previous visit, but she knew that didn’t necessarily count for anything.

She continued to dissemble as she tried to take in more details of the patrons around her. “Why can’t you give those seats to the other couple?”

“The performance will be starting soon and we need to seat all of our patrons in time. I assure you, your new seats will be just as good.” He ignored her question and reached out to take her arm.

She shrugged him off, a mix of irritation and rising panic informing her movements. She was starting to think that taking on Moriarty alone on a battleground of her choosing was a very big mistake and she wished she’d actually dragged Sherlock along, even though he would have complained the whole time.

She opened her mouth to continue protesting and closed it just as suddenly when another usher waved a man in a wheelchair and his companion to the seats she’d just vacated. She belatedly realised she’d been sitting in one of the accessible seats and as she felt the warm rush of blood into her cheeks she tried to mask her embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.” This time, when he led, she followed.

A hint of suspicion returned when he led her back out into the corridor and up several flights of stairs. Her frown deepened as he opened the door to what she realised was one of the private boxes.

“The view really is so much nicer from up here, don’t you think?” Moriarty said, turning to face her as she entered the box.

It shouldn’t have been a shock to see Moriarty when everything about this exercise had been about precisely that. And yet somehow, it still was, although perhaps it wasn’t so much shock at Moriarty’s presence as it was shock at her instinctual response to the sight of her.

She was left searching for words and finding none, she simply stood there for a moment, drinking in the details. The black sheath dress Moriarty wore was simple, elegant and left room for the subtle ornamentation of diamonds at her ears and her throat. Her hair was swept up for once, exposing the pale, slender column of her neck and Joan’s fingers twitched with the temptation to remove the pin holding golden curls at bay and watch them cascade down onto bare shoulders.

The door closed behind her, jolting her out of the reverie she’d fallen into.

“I wasn’t sure you’d make it, dear.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here.” Moriarty was looking at her in a way that was thoroughly disconcerting and Joan seized upon the first offensive gambit that popped into her head. “I could call the cops, you know.” It sounded weak even as she said it and she regretted it the moment it was out of her mouth.

“But something tells me you won’t.” Moriarty seemed entirely unperturbed by this threat. “Besides, as far as the United States is concerned, I have committed no crimes. I’m a free woman as of last month.” She smiled in a fashion that Joan would have found disarming if she didn’t know better. “Relax, dear. We’re here for a lovely night at the opera, nothing more.”

Joan took her phone out of her bag anyway. “If you try anything…”

Moriarty inclined her head. “If it makes you feel better, of course. But you must know I would be gone long before the city’s finest blundered their way in here.”

“We caught you once before.”

Moriarty smiled tightly and Joan couldn’t help but feel a little smug. “Indeed you did. I like to think, though, that I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. And after all, if you were dead, who would be clever enough to catch me?” Moriarty patted the seat next to her and when Joan hesitated, she said, “Why not sit down and have a drink seeing as you’re here. I have an absurdly expensive bottle of champagne and I’m far too much of a lightweight to drink it all myself.”

She was here and she might as well try to find out what Moriarty was up to in New York this time. She accepted the flute of champagne. “So what brings you to New York? Assassination? Theft of priceless artworks? State secrets?”

“Must we talk business right now?” Joan just looked at her and Moriarty was silent for a moment before answering. “If you must know, it was you.”

Joan eyed her drink suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re not here to kill me?”

“Kill you? Now where would the fun be in that.” Moriarty rolled her eyes as she retrieved the glass from Joan’s hand. She took a sip, her eyes not leaving Joan’s the whole time. “There. Satisfied?”

If Joan had managed to convince herself otherwise, she was left with little doubt about the nature of Moriarty’s attentions as the champagne flute was returned. She looked down at the hand on her arm, at the thumb brushing across the inside of her wrist, and then back up to find Moriarty’s eyes fixed on her.

“What do you want?”

Moriarty’s lips curved into a smile. “You must surely have guessed by now.”

Part of her wanted to believe it was true, and part of her couldn’t quite accept that any of this was real; there must be some other motive in play. And then there was the sensible part of her that knew that it didn’t matter either way; Moriarty was dangerous and that was all she should need to know. That part of her apparently was off doing other things tonight, because instead of getting the hell out of there, she asked, “Is this about Sherlock?” the insecure part of her winning out for the moment.

“Do you see Sherlock here right now?” Moriarty looked around exaggeratedly for a moment, before her eyes settled back on Joan. “After some consideration, I have concluded that my interest in Sherlock was, perhaps, a little… onanistic.” Her lip curled as she pronounced this last word. “I’ve decided that it is time to put away childish things and…” The smile returned. “And so I find myself here.”

The house lights had dimmed a few moments ago and Joan had been too wrapped up in their sparring to notice. She shifted to face the stage as the performance begun, glad for the conveniently timed excuse to not respond to those last few revelations.

Joan tried to focus on the performance, she really did, but her mind kept wandering. Turandot was a long way from being her favourite and it had very little hope of competing with the far more interesting distraction sitting less than a foot away from her. Every so often, Moriarty would lean closer, a hand on her arm, and whisper something in her ear and Joan would find herself suddenly even less invested in the performance than she had been before.

As the house lights came up for the intermission, Joan stood up quickly. She summoned a bright, fake smile and said, “I’m just going to find a restroom. I’ll be back soon.”

The truth was, she needed a few minutes away from Moriarty to remember herself and remember just how dangerous Moriarty was. She hoped that the lines for the restroom were especially long this evening and when she rounded a corner she was relieved to find herself at the end of a line that snaked along the corridor to a restroom that was almost out of sight. By the time she reached the front of the line, she’d almost managed to convince herself that she should just walk out and head back to the brownstone and pretend none of this had ever happened.

She didn’t; she made it back to the box just in time for the house lights to dim again.

As she took her seat, Moriarty leaned close, breath hot against her ear and it seemed that her self-enforced timeout had been in vain, because Joan couldn’t quite suppress the shiver of pleasure she felt at this proximity, or the knowledge that if she turned her head her lips would find Moriarty’s.

“Well, principessa, shall I solve your riddles?”

With those few words, the spell that had been building was broken and Joan remembered why her fascination with Moriarty was generally heavily tempered by distaste.

“I don’t know why I’m even remotely surprised that this was nothing more than a game to you. It always is, isn’t it? And of course you see me as some exotic new plaything to possess and figure out and discard, some sort of clever puzzle to solve. Well surely you’ve realised by now that I’m not that easy and I’m not going to let you win.”

Moriarty was silent the whole time and Joan finally ran out of steam as the spotlight picked out Calaf sitting on the stairs. As the opening notes of Nessun Dorma rang out, Moriarty stood up. “You’re right, of course. Turandot was a poor choice.”


End file.
